


The Hazards Of Gambling

by ciaan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Psychic, Season/Series 01, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-08
Updated: 2010-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-07 19:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ciaan/pseuds/ciaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written September 2006 for the spn_gleeweek prompt: "Dean loses Sam in a pool game and has to 'win' him back and, of course, sex happens between Dean/Other, Sam/Other, Dean/Other/Sam, or Sam/Dean." This fic is not Wincest but it is not guaranteed Wincest-free, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hazards Of Gambling

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by dotfic.

"I don't have a thousand dollars left." Dean let a little bit of a nervous whine creep into his voice.

The woman smiled at him flirtatiously, flipping her dark hair back behind her shoulders. "Well, what else do you have?"

They'd been playing pool for hours now. Dean had mostly been letting her win, though not always, so she wouldn't get suspicious. She was an okay player, but not that good. He'd lost a lot of money to her, and now they were playing for the high stakes. He was going to win this one and call it a night, win all his money back and much more.

Normally he wouldn't be hustling a woman like this. He did have some standards. But she'd been the one to come up and ask him to play in the first place, and she'd been the one to suggest they start betting. It wasn't Dean's fault she'd come alone to such a seedy place, dressed in a denim mini-skirt and tight black tank-top, asking strange men to wager money with her. At first he'd been hoping to get lucky with her, but she seemed serious about just playing her half-assed game, and all the flirting had been blatantly aimed at getting him to bet more money. He'd at least gotten a few good views in, and he'd kept any other lowlife from making a move on her. So he wasn't letting himself feel too guilty.

"Well..." Dean hesitated, trying to look as solemn as possible. "All I have is my car." He hated letting it get to that point normally, but he'd make an exception here.

She frowned. "I already have a car." Then she pointed across the room to Sam, sitting alone at a small table. He'd been sitting there all night, nursing beer after beer, looking through Dad's journal and the newspapers, being his sulky self. "He's yours, right?"

"Yeeeeaaahh," Dean replied slowly. He could almost taste it in the back of his mouth, the glare Sam would give him if he heard this exchange.

"So, you can put him up."

Dean shook his head. "I know he's not much to look at, but he's worth more than a thousand dollars."

"I don't need him forever. Just one night." She leaned against the edge of the pool table, hips cocked.

He paused, considering. "Well, I doubt he's worth as much as a thousand a night. But okay." It wasn't like Dean was going to lose, anyway. Sam'd never even know about this. And if, by some unbelievable chance, Dean did lose, well. She was hot. And Sam needed to get laid more often anyway.

The woman nodded. "So if you win, you get a thousand dollars. If I win, I get your brother for the next 24 hours."

"Hey, now. A night's not 24 hours long."

She rolled her eyes. "It's almost 1am already. I wouldn't be getting a full night tonight. And I don't trust you not to skip out before tomorrow. That's the deal, take it or leave it."

Dean nodded and held out his hand, and they shook on it. She had really nice hands, slender fingers with long red nails.

She smiled at him. "I'll even let you go first."

Dean smiled back. He set up the balls, chalked his cue, and leaned over. No more mister nice guy.

His first shot sent a ball neatly into a pocket. The second did as well. So did the third. The woman was watching him nervously, and Dean started to feel a little bad again. But he was still going to win.

His fourth shot just barely missed the hole and bounced off the lip, careening wide and scattering more balls. He shrugged.

The woman stepped up and bent over the edge of the table, and all the hesitation and catty prancing were gone. Her cue moved like lightning, and a ball shot straight into the back pocket. Dean blinked. She moved on to another shot, and again the ball went in like it was magnetized. On her third shot, she somehow managed to knock three balls in at once, to three of the corner pockets.

"Cheater," Dean growled as she bent to her next shot.

That ball went home as well, and she straightened up, staring at him. "What do you mean?"

"You've been letting me win."

She smiled coolly. "More like I've been letting you let me win."

Dean didn't get to make another shot. He just watched as she sunk ball after ball until she was done. He was impressed, yeah, and he probably should have been taking notes of her technique, but he was too pissed off. He'd been hustled.

Fuck. He'd bet his brother and he'd been hustled. Sam would not be pleased.

Sam would be teasing Dean for months about this, getting hustled by some girl playing the innocent and helpless routine. She could even be a regular here, for all he knew.

The hustling bitch had already turned away, ignoring Dean, and was sliding between the chairs toward Sam. Dean tossed his cue down across the table and trailed slowly after her. Sam was going to be so angry, and Dean wasn't too eager to get over there.

So he was still fairly far away when he watched her lean down, right in Sam's face, and purr, "Hey, big boy. Your brother just lost to me playing pool, and now you're mine."

Sam looked up at her for a second, clearly confused, and Dean could practically see the little gears inside his head spinning as he parsed her words. Then Sam turned, gaze unerringly finding Dean across the crowded room, and oh, there was the glare. Dean stopped walking, his hand resting on the top of an empty stool. It was comfortable here. He'd just stand here for a minute. Yeah, that was good.

Sam opened his mouth, probably to tell her to leave him alone in some polite, gentlemanly fashion. Then she reached out and placed her hand on his cheek, and Sam froze. He shut his mouth, blinked, shook his head, blinked again, and then his face went slack. She stepped back, and Sam stood up, following her out of the room like a puppet, leaving Dad's journal and half a bottle of beer right there on the little table. Dean stared after them as the door swung shut.

That... Shit. She probably really had cheated, too.

No, that wasn't the real problem. The real problem was that she was some kind of hypnotizing freak, and she had Sam.

No, actually, the real real problem was that she was some kind of hypnotizing freak, and Dean had given her Sam.

He ran across the room, feet skidding and sticking on the grungy floor, grabbed Dad's journal, and hightailed it out to the Impala. There was another car just pulling out of the parking lot, and no one else around, and Dean really, really hoped that was her and Sam. He shadowed the car for a few blocks before he managed to get close enough at one light to be fairly certain that was his brother's silhouette in the passenger seat. Then he dropped back further, not wanting her to see him, and stayed behind the car for a few more minutes until it pulled up at a nice little house in a nice little neighborhood. The woman got out, Sam got out, and the two of them went inside. Dean drove a few houses further and then pulled over near an empty driveway with a for-sale sign next to it.

He had no idea what she was. She could be anything. She could even be just a person. He didn't have much time to figure it out, so he loaded up with everything. A lighter and some matches, a ziploc bag of salt in one jacket pocket and a flask of holy water in the other, handgun loaded with silver bullets down the front of his pants and one with wrought iron bullets down the back, and a shotgun with rocksalt in his hands.

Creeping around the back of the house, Dean tried to place their locations. That was pretty easy when he rounded a corner and was suddenly staring right through a lit window at a cozy living room, where Sam and the woman were making out on the sofa. Or at least, Sam was sitting there, with her in his lap, kissing him. He looked a bit too stiff to be described as doing anything quite so active as making out.

Okay, yeah, Sam needed to get laid. But not by some hypnotizing freak who might turn out to really be trying to eat his skin or something. There were a million nefarious and creepy things she could have in mind.

He needed a plan. ...Sneak in and grab Sam while she was distracted? Distracted by what? She was pressed right up against him. Maybe Dean could ring the doorbell, and then when she went to answer it, he'd come in the back.

That was a stupid plan.

He couldn't think. Planning was hard while he was imagining her starting to chow down on Sam any second now.

Okay, he could bust in the front, point a gun at her, and take Sam and run away. If she pounced, he'd shoot her. She hadn't been able to hypnotize Sam until she touched him. It might not be the best plan ever, but it was quick and easy.

It was really easy until Dean got to the part where he'd walked right through the unlocked front door and into the living room and aimed a silver bullet at her head. That was when she calmly turned around and grinned at him.

"Hey, Dean. Nice of you to join us."

Dean was sure that he hadn't told her his name, considering he didn't know hers.

The woman stood up, unfolding off of Sam gracefully. She raised one delicate eyebrow and pressed a hand to her heart, fingers dipping into her own cleavage. "You wouldn't shoot your hostess, would you? That would be rude."

Dean glanced behind her at Sam, who was sitting there unmoving. His face was set in a pissy expression.

She took another step toward Dean, and he waggled the gun a little. "Stay there. If you come any closer I will shoot you."

She took yet another step, and Dean pulled the trigger, and nothing happened. Because he didn't actually pull it. He tried again, and again the thought didn't make it from his head to his fingers.

The woman swayed closer. Her eyes were dark and deep, no longer seeming innocent. She pressed up against him with a soft laugh. "Sam's mine for the next 24 hours, Dean. Why are you trying to renege on our agreement?" She took the gun out of his grasp and tossed it away. It landed, Dean noticed briefly, next to Sam's flannel shirt, already lying on the floor.

Dean tried to pull away, but he couldn't move. He was paralyzed. He could still feel everything, though, feel her body up against his, her breath as she leaned in and placed her mouth against his ear, her hands as she slid them around his waist and removed the other gun from the back of his pants. Then she tugged the shotgun out from under his jacket and dropped both of them as well.

"Come on, stay a while. Make yourself comfortable," she whispered into his ear as she slid her hands into his jacket pockets and riffled around. She pulled out the flask and giggled, then opened it and took a sip. "Holy water? How sweet." That was tossed away too, and then she slid his jacket off his shoulders and threw it into a corner, sending the salt and matches away with it. "Well? Aren't you going to say hello?"

"Hello," Dean grit out, his voice surprising him. He swallowed and continued. "Look, why don't you just let Sam run along, and I'll stay here? I'm better looking, anyway."

She tapped a slender finger against his lips, staring up at him. "Sorry, but Sam's special, and you're not."

Oh, how dare she.

Then she spun Dean around and shoved him backward into the armchair facing the sofa. Dean stared at Sam, who was still just sitting there, staring back at Dean. This was getting pretty pathetic.

Dean tried to say something, but his mouth wouldn't open. Fucking bitch.

The hustling, brother-stealing bitch pointed to Sam. "See, Sam has all these delicious, shiny treats inside his brain. And I'm going to rip his mind out and take them for my own."

An icy wash of fear flooded through Dean. He may not have been the world's biggest fan of Sam's psychic powers, and them going away didn't sound so bad, but ripping Sam's mind out was a definite no. Whether it killed him or left him catatonic or what the fuck ever, it was a no.

She smiled at Sam. "You know, Sam, this is all your brother's fault. There's this rule, see. I can't do that to you without permission, and I can't manipulate your mind to get that permission. But there's a little loophole, too, and it doesn't necessarily have to be you who gives permission. Dean said I could do this, of his own free will, even though he didn't really know what he was agreeing to. And that's quite good enough."

Dean really didn't think he'd ever said yes to this, but he had to admit he had been a little careless with Sam's safety. And now it was coming around to bite him in the ass. From now on, he'd just stick to encouraging Sam to pick up chicks, not actually handing him out to them like Halloween candy. He would swear it.

At least Sam was glaring at the woman now, not at Dean, as she grinned at him. That was a bit of a relief.

She turned back to Dean, swinging a leg up and settling herself over his lap. She pulled her tank-top off, revealing exactly the kind of lacy push-up bra Dean loved. "Now, Dean, you're going to get me worked up so I can access all the deepest parts of your brother's mind."

No, he wasn't.

But his hands were reaching up anyway, regardless of his thoughts, and cupping her tits. She leaned in, her face growing huge, and kissed him, tongue sliding in as his mouth opened up effortlessly, fingers pushing into his hair. Her tongue was rough somehow, almost like a cat's, and it made his throat tingle. There was an aftertaste of beer in the back of her mouth - she hadn't been drinking beer at all, Sam had. Dean shivered. Creepy. His thumbs rubbed circles around her nipples, and she sighed into his mouth. Silk and lace and curvy flesh under his hands, and her soft lips on his, and her hips starting to rock against him. She pressed up closer to his crotch, and he could feel himself getting hard.

Considering she could control the rest of his body too, no surprise there. But he couldn't guarantee that was actually the reason, and it annoyed him. Stupid body, doing things like sneezing or coughing or popping boners all on its own.

Having a sexy woman in his lap had never been more not-fun in his life.

He couldn't see Sam anymore, because the woman blocked his view.

He had to concentrate, figure out a way to get free. Okay, Dean, think unsexy thoughts. Cold showers, little old ladies, Dad, that fat guy from the restaurant yesterday, Sam getting his mind ripped out... That last didn't help with the concentrating.

Fat guy from the restaurant, fat guy from the restaurant, fat guy from the restaurant...

What Dean had to do, he figured, was keep her over here as long as possible, keep her away from Sam. Then maybe Sam would figure something out, or Dean would figure something out, and they'd be set. Or, if he couldn't stop himself from touching her, maybe he could make himself do more of it. If Dean managed to distract her enough, she might lose control of Sam. It was the best chance he had.

She ground against him harder and pulled away from his mouth. "You can try, but it won't work."

Shit. She could read his mind.

"You're an open book, Dean. It isn't hard." Her expression was contemptuous.

Hustling, brother-stealing, thought-reading bitch. He was going to keep her away from Sam as long as possible, anyway. He tried sliding his right hand around her back, and that actually worked. Good. He hooked his fingers under the back of her bra and popped the clasp open with his thumb, pulling the cups away in front with his left hand.

Her boobs hung in front of Dean's face, pale, rounded skin tipped with pink, her nipples taut. He bent down and mouthed at them as he dropped her bra to the floor, then slid his hands up her back, pulling her tighter against him. She arched back, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Dean bit down hard on her nipple, and she moaned, her hips writhing.

He licked and kissed all around her breasts, tracing the edges of the curves with his tongue, nibbling on her skin, sucking hard on her nipples, doing everything he could to drive her wild. His hands traced patterns over her back, sliding from her shoulderblades to the waistband of her skirt. He could hear her gasping as she pressed her hips against his roughly.

Then Dean's hands were making their way along her sides of their own volition, sliding down to her bare, smooth legs, and back up under her skirt. His fingers grasped the silk of her panties and started pulling them toward her knees.

When they couldn't move any further she stood up, and the cloth slid down her legs slowly, until she stepped out of it entirely. She stood there right in front of him, legs spread, and rested her hands on his shoulders.

"Come on, Dean, you can do it."

All these orders masquerading as flirtatious comments were really starting to piss him off, especially the way she kept using his name as if they were actually friendly. He wondered what her name was, anyway. Not that he cared the way he usually would. He just wanted to know so he could use it while he cursed her out. It was at least something to think about other than his hands returning to her body against his wishes, and what she was going to do once she finished toying with him.

She laughed and shook her head, and he knew she'd picked up on those thoughts. Then she hummed low in her throat as he reached up under her miniskirt, left hand curving around her hipbone, right hand finding a little patch of curly hair and slipping down between her legs, parting her labia to find the wetness there. He rubbed around until his fingers and her whole pussy were slick, then flicked his thumbnail across her clit lightly.

Dean peered over her shoulder at Sam, who sat there awkwardly on the sofa, watching them, expression unreadable. His eyes flickered, and he tilted his head as he and Dean locked gazes. Dean had no idea what was showing on his own face, but Sam frowned, sighed, and then the edge of his mouth quirked up ruefully.

That made it a little bit better and a little bit worse.

Dean kept staring at Sam as he rubbed his palm slowly across the woman's clit, slipping his middle finger inside her. She was hot and wet, and normally this was one of his favorite feelings, but right now he hated every second of it.

At least she wasn't anywhere near Sam, though, and that was the whole point. She was clutching Dean's shoulders and moaning, and he just tried to block all of that out. He moved his hand by rote, rubbing, pressing, circling, vibrating, and watched Sam for any signs of freedom. Sorry, Sam, he kept thinking, over and over, and, dude, do something now.

Sam just stared pensively back and then, suddenly, he nodded. Dean squinted at him, because he had no idea what that meant.

He felt the woman come a moment later, muscles clenching and pulsing against his fingers, sharp nails digging into his shoulders. Fucking bitch, that hurt. She shuddered and moaned, then leaned in a little closer and bit his earlobe.

Dean tried to pull away, but his hand kept moving against the heat and wet of her as her teeth dug into him. His fingers spread, shifting against her in patterns he wouldn't normally use, moving at a jagged rhythm. Her legs were trembling, and she was even wetter now.

Then she straightened up and started to unzip her skirt. He tried to reach out and grab her as she lowered it and stepped back, kicking it away, but he was helpless, frozen. She turned, stalking across the room, naked except for her strappy sandals.

Immobile, Dean had to watch as she kissed Sam, shoving him back down into the sofa until Sam was lying across it, his stupid height just barely fitting. She straddled his waist, hands in his hair, and Sam's hands were fists against her thighs. She rocked against him a few times, probing his mouth with her creepy tongue, then looked up at Dean again. "Help us out here, Dean."

The two of them and the sofa kept getting closer and closer, like in a dream, and Dean's head was spinning, but his legs kept stepping him along. He knelt down next to the arm of the sofa by their heads. He couldn't look at Sam. Instead he stared straight in front of him at the dingy red cloth of the couch, counting the threads in the weave of it. It dipped down where a button was, a big, cloth-covered button, pressing fatly into the stuffing.

"Take his shirt off."

No way.

Dean's hands slid up Sam's stomach, moving the cloth out of the way. Dean looked down, focusing on the line of fine hairs leading from Sam's navel into his jeans. He pushed the t-shirt higher, and could feel Sam's heart beating a mile a minute. Dean tried to press at his chest reassuringly despite being frantic himself, rubbing the familiar softness of skin over hard muscles, and he didn't look up even as the shirt caught on Sam's chin. Then Sam raised his arms and Dean was yanking the cloth away, dropping it unheeding.

"Now hold his arms down."

No fucking way.

Dean's stare bounced up to the button on the back of the sofa again, then down to Sam's wrists, where Dean's own hands were suddenly, awfully gripping. He could see his knuckles going white with the tension of the grasp, and Sam's skin denting and reddening where Dean's fingers dug in.

The worst of it was that he could feel Sam's muscles straining and shifting, Sam struggling against Dean's hold and the woman's mind. Dean almost couldn't breathe for an instant, knowing that Sam was actually able to move on his own, at least a little. Dean tried, he tried, to let go of Sam, to let go just enough that Sam could pull free, but instead he kept pinning Sam's arms down above his head.

What the hell was that mental bitch going to do exactly, and when, and how?

There was a click, and Dean whipped his head around in time to see her undoing Sam's belt, then his pants. She lifted herself up enough to shove Sam's jeans and briefs down around his knees, and then settled back on his thighs. Sam was hard, not completely, but kinda, his dick curving up over his stomach. She reached down and wrapped her hand around it, stroking a few times, and Sam got harder.

She smiled, then winked at Dean and leaned over to him. Dean glared as her hand snuck into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. She opened it, removed the condom he kept there, and returned the wallet to his pocket.

She moved down a little, ripping the condom wrapper open, and Dean could see, glistening in the light, the wet spot on Sam's thigh from where her pussy had been.

That was hot despite it all, and that fact made Dean want to curl up and die.

He finally looked up at Sam's face. Sam's hair was curled and damp with sweat, and his eyes were closed. The thought of doing that hadn't even crossed Dean's mind, and he rejected it right away. He had to know what was happening. Sam's nose was scrunched up, and he was biting his lower lip. A trickle of blood ran down his chin. Dean thought, wildly, that he should wipe it away, but he still couldn't move his hands, and it wasn't like he could bend down to Sam's face and-

"Come on, Sammy," he heard the woman whisper, and the sound of skin on skin-

And Sam bucked up, writhing, yanking at his arms.

Dean was suddenly pressing his palms against the nubbly fabric of the sofa, pinning thin air to it, and Sam was crouched next to him. The woman was sprawled on the floor, and one of the guns was flying through the air and into Sam's hands. Dean couldn't tell which bullets it had, and he hoped that didn't matter. Sam's eyes were blazing with rage, and his finger was steady on the trigger. It was the best thing Dean had seen in months. Years.

The woman stood up, backing away a few steps. Sam didn't shoot. Dean wanted her shot.

Dean was standing up himself, moving in front of her. Sam's expression wavered, and so did the gun in his hands. Dean stared at the slowly lowering barrel.

Just fucking shoot, Sam, Dean thought as clearly as he could.

There was a bang, and a tearing burn in his right thigh. He fell, the world slipping around him, fuzzing to blinding white with another bang.

When the room faded back into view Dean found himself staring at the dead woman lying on the floor beside him. Her chest was dripping with a puddle of blood, so dark it almost looked black, and her eyes were blank silver.

Something tugged painfully at his leg, and Dean glanced down to see Sam, dressed again in jeans and t-shirt, wrapping his flannel around the wound on Dean's thigh.

"Sam..." Dean started to say, and Sam glared at him.

"Shut up, idiot. I'm not even talking to you."

But Sam finished binding the flannel bandage and hoisted Dean up from the floor, slinging an arm around his waist. Dean held on to Sam's shoulder and they stumbled out of the house together.

 

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Moral of the story: Never wager your brother on games of chance or skill. Or your car. Just in case.

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End file.
